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Family Time

Bill Tope

    “Where’s your kid?” he asked gruffly, glancing back in annoyance. He had places to go, people to see, things to do. Who was it that he used to hear say that? he wondered. “She should be back by now.”
    Without looking, the woman replied, “She’s coming.”
    Now he frowned. “I don’t know why you don’t keep better tabs on her, Mary,” he complained yet again. “Tell her to keep up and quit staring at all the animals.”
    Unseen by him, Mary rolled her eyes a little. “Well, Mike, this is a zoo,” she said. “She’s excited. When you were a kid, didn’t you love animals?” she wondered aloud.
    He cocked his head a bit. “Only in the sights of an AR-15,” he replied. He glanced at a cage. “Wouldn’t mind bagging that, what is it...?”
    She looked. “Siberian tiger?” she asked, disbelievingly.
    “Yeah. That’d look fine in the living room; you know, over the fireplace?”
    “We’d have to remove Bambi’s dad first,” she told him. “Besides, they’re endangered,” said Mary.
    “No skin off my nose,” said Mike.
    “There are only like 500 Siberian tigers left in the world,” she pointed out.
    “That’s cool,” said Mike. “I only want one—and one for my brother; I’ll leave the rest for whoever.” When she was quiet, he added whimsically, “Look, I’m big hearted: I’ll even leave the tiger meat for the natives in them African villages.”
    “Yummy. Tiger steaks. Siberian tigers,” she informed him drily, “live in Russia.”
    “They’re Putin’s problem, then, aren’t they?” said Mike dismissively. “Let him figure it out.”
    “Right,” said his companion. “When he’s not raping Ukraine.”
    Now Mike rolled his eyes. “Are we gonna start that shit again?” he asked. “China is our enemy, whereas Russia has got lots of oil,” he reminded her. Mary shook her head helplessly. How did she ever become involved with such a man?
    Suddenly, a young child ran up behind the couple, bearing in her hands a sno-cone. “‘Bout time you was back,” grumbled Mike.
    “I had to wait in line,” explained the little girl, licking the cone.
    “Hey, where’s my change?” demanded Mike impatiently.
    “I don’t think you gave me enough money,” she told him, thoughtfully furrowing her brow. When he only stared at her, she continued, “The man said he hadn’t seen a quarter in twenty years.”
    “A quarter!” squawked Mary. “You gave her just twenty five cents? How much do sno-cones cost, Livi?” she asked her daughter.
    “I don’t know,” Livi admitted. “But the man said he felt sorry for me because my folks were still living in the 1960s, so he gave it to me for nothing.”
    “Then gimme my quarter back, kid,” snarled Mike, holding out his hand.
    “What did he mean, ‘living in the 1960s?’” asked the girl, handing him the coin.
    “That’s a long time ago, honey,” replied Mary, arching her brows, “when people ate tiger steaks.” Livi shrugged, licked at her sno-cone.
    “We better wrap this up,” suggested Mike, suddenly antsy. “I gotta be at Stagger Inn by six.”
    “The tavern again?” asked Mary, frowning. “This is what, the third night in a row?”
    “Maybe I should get you to fill out my day-planner,” remarked her husband crossly. He remembered his first wife, forever carping and complaining about his affinity for the bar scene. He swept the thoughts from his mind.
    “I could do it easily enough,” replied Mary. “Just buy me a stamp that says ‘tavern.’”
    “Look, when you married me, you got a wedding certificate, not a bill of sale,” he pointed out. He’d forgotten how possessive a woman could be. “I have to go. Tonight’s trivia night, and we’re in a tournament.”
    “Trivia,” she mused dourly. “Like, how many beers can an otherwise well adjusted man swill in four hours?” He scowled. “We’ve been married for more than a year,” she said. “I would have expected a little progression in that time, a little adaptability on both our parts. I want to do things together, like a family. All I ever hear from you is ‘tavern’ and ‘softball’ and ‘pot.’”
    Another argument, he thought. “Well,” he came back at her, “all I get from you and your kid is...”
    “And that’s another thing,” she interrupted. “Livi has a name, and I’d like for you to think of her as ‘our child,’ and not as ‘your kid.’” Mike frowned darkly and shook his head in frustration. That wasn’t what he’d meant. Again he remembered: flickering through his brain was a stepfather who was never home; parents with no regard for one another; lonely nights in the old house. Feeling profoundly alone in a home without love.
    Unexpectedly, Livi spoke up. “Don’t you like me, Mike?” she asked innocently, drinking the purple syrup from her paper cup. She stared up expectantly into his sunburned face. Mary regarded him silently. Mike’s face seemed to harden.
    “No, I do not like you,” he said harshly; then he snatched her off the ground. Mary opened her mouth to speak, and Livi gasped in surprise. “I love you, Livi.” he said tenderly. She smiled with delight. “Ask your mom,” he invited. “The only reason I married her was that she had such a beautiful daughter.”
    “Did he, mom?” asked Livi eagerly.
    “That’s right,” agreed Mary, remembering suddenly why she’d decided to transform this bar fly into a husband. The three of them stood savoring the mutual affection for a long moment.
    “What’re we gonna do tonight?” inquired the little girl.
    “Whatever you want,” declared Mike.
    “Good,” she said. “Let’s go to Stagger Inn—like a family!” Mary and Mike both thought: well, that’s a reasonable compromise.
    “Buy you a Shirley Temple,” promised Mike.
    “I like Slim Jims,” said Livi.
    “Great,” said Mike. “I’ll give you a buck and you can buy ten of them!”
    From her perch on Mike’s shoulder, Livi said, “I think we’re back in the 1960s again, mom.”

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